Shockwave
by cryptictac
Summary: Sequel to 'Heatwave': Cuddy goes into labour, House is still wondering what the hell he's got himself into, and Wilson gets dragged along for the ride.
1. part one

Two forty-three AM, and I'm halfway between being fast asleep and sweating to death from the hot summer night, when the phone rings. Telephone calls at this time of night can mean any number of things – a wrong number, a prank call from a bored idiot, a telemarketer from India who speaks no English trying to sell you property in some province of Asia you've never heard of before, maybe an interesting development on a case I'm working on.

Or it could mean the woman you impregnated nine months ago, who's almost two weeks overdue, has gone into labour.

Without any warning whatsoever, I immediately enter panic mode. This could be the phone call I've been dreading for the last nine months, the phone call that will mark the beginning of the end of my life. My heart is in my throat. My stomach is in knots. My life is flashing before my eyes. I roll over and fumble frantically for the phone on my bedside table and it rings three more times before I have it firmly in my hand. I push the 'talk' button and slap the phone to my ear.

"Cuddy?" I say. I'm panicking too much right now to even care how worried I sound.

"House." It's Cuddy.

"Cuddy," I repeat, even more worried.

Understand that I am not a caring man. Caring is for people who like puppy dogs and fluffy ducks and Mother Teresa and movies with happy endings. I like none of those things. It's against my principles to care. If I followed a religion, it would be against my religion to care. But I find myself caring right now. A lot. To the point where I start babbling into the phone like a lunatic. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Do you need ice cream? I don't mind getting you ice cream. Do you need me to come over? I can bring ice cream if you want." I push myself up with a pained grunt – oh fuck, my leg hurts – and wipe a shaky hand across my forehead.

"House," Cuddy says again, and I notice she sounds remarkably calm for a woman who's two weeks past her exploding date.

"Cuddy," I reply. Maybe the fact that she's calm is a good thing. Maybe all she does need is ice cream. Women have weird cravings at weird times of the day, after all. And Cuddy has been craving ice cream lately like her life depends on it.

I have a very ominous feeling, though, that she's not calling to say she wants ice cream. Not this time.

"House, my water's broken."

I know medically what that means. I even know rationally what that means. Denial, however, is the last lifeline I have left. "Call a plumber," I suggest.

"I said my water, not my pipes."

"Water comes from pipes."

"Not this particular kind of water," Cuddy says dryly.

I rub my forehead again. "So, did you want ice cream or not?"

"Why would I want ice cream?"

"Because that's all you've ever called me for lately – to get you ice cream."

"I can assure you: I don't want ice cream." Before I can argue, she adds, "I'm going to the hospital. I just thought I'd give you a call before I went."

"You're going to the hospital to get ice cream?"

"House, I'm in labour."

I always thought the three words 'I love you' were the most terrifying words that could ever be uttered by a fellow human being. Love is a scary, horrible thing that causes horrible things to happen like loss of common sense and the huge possibility of getting hurt. Love involves caring about someone, which I don't do. Love involves vulnerability and responsibility, which I want as little of as possible. Love involves taking the good with the bad, even when the bad is a hundred times worse than the good, which it usually is. Kids require all of the above, in much more concentrated levels. I realise at that very moment that 'I'm in labour' is actually ten times more terrifying than 'I love you'. A thousand times, in fact. A million times would probably be more accurate. This is like all of my nightmares come true.

"Oh, fuck."

"Don't sound too excited," Cuddy replies sarcastically.

Another realisation hits me: this isn't right. This is all backwards. Cuddy is the one that's supposed to be panicking, and I'm the one that's not supposed to give a crap because it was never my intention to give a crap. I didn't sign up to give craps. Yet, here I am, in a state of panic over the fact that my kid is hours from being born. My kid. _My_ kid.

Suddenly, I decide I want a full refund, all donated sperm included. Every single one of them, especially the one that was unlucky enough to be ensnared into the evil clutches of Cuddy's ovum. Like a fly to a spider's web. What the hell was I thinking when I agreed to help get Cuddy pregnant? I don't want to be a father. I like my life the way it is – alone, single and kid-free. I _hate_ change. All types of change – loose change, change rooms, interest rate change, sex change, even change in the local video store when the movie sections gets switched around. I especially hate life change. And this kid is going to change _everything_. In fact, it already has.

"House?" Cuddy calls down the phone.

I snap out of my thoughts. I want my sperm back in the safety of my testes where they belong, I want to tell her. Instead, I find my mouth saying, "I'm coming right over."

I hang up. I'm in a daze when I dress. A fast, frantic daze. I stumble over furniture, trip over my shoes, stub my toe on the end of the bed and swear at the top of my lungs, and manage to drop my car keys four times. But finally, I'm dressed and not at all ready to face my fate. My dark, grim fate. People – idiots, mainly - say the birth of a baby marks the start of new beginning. A new era. A new phase in the journey of life. Sure, it _is_ a new phase in the journey of life, in the same way death row inmates consider the journey down the green mile the beginning of the end. Except, for them, there's an escape route at the end of the mile. It's called death. For me, there's no escape route whatsoever. This is a life sentence with no parole. Otherwise known as fatherhood. I'm officially a dead man walking.

It's just on 3AM when I head out the door to start on my own journey down the green mile to fatherhood.

* * *

I'm sure I get busted for speeding by at least four speed cameras on the way to Cuddy's place.

I pull up outside her house with a squeal of rubber, making a mental note to bill her for any speeding fines that might turn up in my mail in the next few weeks, and leave my car unlocked while I head up the garden path to her door. The entire way there, I have the _Imperial March_ running through my mind. I nervously wipe sweat from my face. I peel my shirt from my back, which has adhered to it like glue from how hot the night is. I try to enjoy one of my last moments as a free man, before I bash on her door with my fist. Oh god, I'm thinking. Oh god, oh god, oh hell, oh god. When the door handle rattles and turns, I watch in terror as the door opens... and find myself staring at a calm and collected Cuddy. In fact, she looks _happy_. Red-faced, puffy and uncomfortable, but happy.

"What's wrong with you?" I demand, bewildered.

She frowns. "Wrong? Apart from being nine and a half months pregnant and in labour, nothing."

"But you look..." I gesture at her, outraged by her distinct lack of panic. "_Happy_."

"That's because I am."

"About what?"

She presses her lips into a thin, sarcastic smile. "Very funny."

I don't think it's funny at all. I think it's downright unfair. Cuddy doesn't seem to care about what I might be thinking, though. She awkwardly stoops down and grabs up a bag. "You ready to go?"

"No."

Cuddy ignores me and turns sideways to start easing her way out the door. I stare down at her stomach, a little awed by how massive it is, until I'm rudely bumped out of the way. "I've been timing my contractions. They're about fifteen minutes apart."

"Oh, good." I brace my hand against the door to keep it open. "That means we don't have to go yet."

Cuddy grabs my arm and steers me away from the door. "We're going, whether you like it or not. I'm way beyond ready to get this kid out."

"I'm not," I retort.

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who's been feeling like you've swallowed a watermelon for the last month."

"Can't you keep it swallowed another nine?"

Cuddy snorts. "As much as I probably look like an elephant to you, I'm actually not an elephant." She shuts the door behind her, adding, "Thank god. Nine months is more than long enough."

"For you, maybe."

"I'm pretty sure nine months is long enough for you, too."

"Two years would be more preferable."

"Wow," Cuddy drawls. "How thoughtful of you."

"Nothing wrong with wanting to postpone the inevitable."

"It just so happens that you were never obliged to care about the inevitable, House. Just like you were never obliged to donate, even though you did." She locks the door. "It's a little late to start having second thoughts."

I watch her waddle down the steps. I'd been having second thoughts from the moment she delivered my life sentence nine and a half months ago, but now I'm _really_ having second thoughts. The 'I'll do anything to bargain my way out of this' kind of second thoughts. Except I have absolutely nothing to bargain with, apart from a blank cheque made out to denial. But even that won't take away the fact that my sperm has conspired with one of Cuddy's eggs to make a creature Stephen King writes books about. Whether I accept my fate or not, I'm screwed either way.

I try to swallow back the bundle of nerves calcifying at the back of my throat and catch up with Cuddy to help her into the car.

* * *

I swing the car into my faithful old disabled parking space and kill the engine. I jerk in surprise when Cuddy's hand suddenly enters my peripheral vision and whacks me against the chest.

"Thanks for trying to bring this baby on faster," she snaps.

I rub my chest. "I thought that'd be what you wanted. Most women dream of having a fast delivery."

"You ran a red light!"

"So? There were no other cars at that intersection."

"You could've gotten us killed!"

"Look on the bright side: I didn't. And you got here faster than an ambulance would've done."

"You bastard." Cuddy slaps me again, then throws the door open. Just when I think I'm safe from Cuddy's hormone-crazed abuse, she leans across and slaps me one more time, this time on my shoulder.

I cower like the poor, suffering victim that I am, and scowl. Just for that, I let her struggle her own way out of the car. She grunts and makes the most unfeminine sounds I've ever heard as she tries to haul herself out. I ignore her while I pull the trunk, get out of the car and fetch her bag. Stupid women, always so ungrateful for the things you do for them, I think to myself. I impregnate her like she wanted, that isn't enough. I remain a loyal companion to Her Royal Bitchiness throughout the duration of her pregnancy, even though I was in no way obliged to, and that isn't enough. I go out of my way to buy her groceries and bring her ice cream and rub her swollen feet, no matter how much I resented every moment of it, and that isn't enough. I get her to the hospital safe and sound and in record time while she's in labour, and _that_ isn't even enough.

"House," Cuddy wheezes.

I glance up. She's sagging against the car, clutching her belly and breathing erratically. I forget instantly that Cuddy and everything about her is the bane of my existence. I drop the bag to the ground instantly and limp around to her as fast as my gimpy leg allows. I grab her arms to steady her and she grabs my arms in return, and all irritation I'd been feeling towards her is replaced with immediate, irrational worry.

"You okay?" I ask.

She draws in a slow breath and exhales. She does it again, and again, and then finally nods. I keep a hold of her while she pushes away from the car and wipes a hand across her sweaty forehead. I can see she's recovered from her contraction, but I don't want to let her go. I'm too afraid to. I'm too scared to even let her walk another step. It's ridiculous because I'm a doctor and I know what to expect and what happens to the female body during childbirth. But this isn't just another female. This is Cuddy.

"You okay?" I ask again.

"I'm okay."

I'm still not convinced. I reluctantly let her go, however, and collect her bag. After I lock up the car, I extend an arm to Cuddy. She eyes it with distinct suspicion, but then waddles over to me and she takes the bag while I put my arm around her waist. I limp-waddle with her towards the hospital entrance and halfway there, she leans up and presses a kiss to my cheek.

I screw my face up in protest. "What was that for?"

"You didn't have to come."

"Really? Why didn't you say that nine months ago?"

Cuddy swats my stomach lightly. "That's not what I meant."

I stick my tongue out at her, but then I give her a brief pat on the back. "I know."

Luckily, we reach the entrance before Cuddy can turn this into a vomit-inducing Hallmark moment. She pants quietly as though she's out of breath, and I keep my hand on her back even though doing so won't do a thing if she suddenly collapses in a fit of contractions. We reach the elevator and I hit the 'up' button, and Cuddy leans against me while we wait.

The hospital lobby is deserted, except for a cleaner mopping the floor by the clinic doors. Every sound echoes, and each echo magnifies how deathly silent it is in the middle of the night. Calm. Quiet. Foreboding. Like the being in the eye of a tornado. Like Dorothy and Toto in _The Wizard of Oz_, except I know that when the tornado passes we definitely won't be in Munchkinland. Or maybe we will be, once the gates to Cuddy's cervix open up and spits out the evil Munchkin lurking within.

I rub Cuddy's back. She responds by tiredly resting her head against my shoulder. A sudden weird feeling comes over me, a kind of out of body experience where I feel like I'm looking down at both of us standing here – Cuddy with her massive stomach and her head against my shoulder, and me with my arm around her. I've never really known how to define my relationship with Cuddy. Besides annoying and aggravating, that is. Too involved with each other to be considered 'not a serious thing', but not involved with each other enough for there to be an 'us'. I like it that way. I like that it's just us, even if there is no 'us'. But soon it won't be just us. It'll be us plus one. Cuddy, me, and Rosemary's baby. This, I realise as the elevator dings and the doors slide open, is one of the last times it'll ever be just us. It's one of those moments that flashes sharp in my mind, burning an image in my brain like a photograph, and I know I'm going to remember this moment for the rest of my life. That scares me a bit.

I silently usher Cuddy into the elevator and hit the button for the maternity floor.

* * *

Sure enough, the house drops, unfortunately not on Cuddy, right in the centre of ground zero the moment she signs in. Just as she sets her pen down after signing the consent form at the front desk, she gasps in pain and grabs her stomach. I gasp in what I refuse to acknowledge as downright fright, and grab onto her. The nurse grabs onto both of us to steer us towards a single, private room. By the time we reach it, her contraction has passed, but the nurse shoves me aside like I don't matter while she bustles around Cuddy and starts taking her vitals.

"I could've done that," I grouse at the nurse as she straps a sphygmomanometer cuff on Cuddy's arm.

Cuddy cranes her neck and peers sharply over the nurse's shoulder at me. "You stay out of it."

"Bit late for that. You got me into this in the first place."

"_Medically_, stay out of it. That means letting the nurses and doctors do their job."

"But what if they suck at it?"

The nurse glances between Cuddy and me, and Cuddy gives her an apologetic smile before turning back to me. "Behave. You're here to be a support to me, not a pain in the ass."

"Already, I can see a flaw in your plan."

Cuddy shoots me a warning look. Despite how much I want to argue, I do as I'm told. I let the nurse do her thing while I open up Cuddy's bag and start going through her things. Partly to put them away for her, but mostly just to snoop. Underwear, nursing bras, nursing pads, maternity pads, a hideous nightgown that I hold up with distaste as the nurse hurries out of the room to attend to another patient.

"This is the least sexiest thing I've ever seen in my entire life," I announce.

Cuddy grabs it from me. "Funnily enough, sex appeal wasn't what I had in mind when I packed my bag."

"You want this kid to make its Imperial March into the world, only to be faced with a mom that has no dress sense?" I resume digging through her bag. "These you could have fun with, though," I say, lifting out one of her nursing bras. I undo and redo the cup fastener a few times to demonstrate my point. "Like a little personal peep show."

She grabs that from me, too. "Why are you going through my things?"

I shrug. "For fun."

"Can't you find other ways to have fun?"

"It's a hospital. Nobody has fun in hospitals."

"You've never let that stop you," she says dryly.

"That's your job. Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Party Pooping."

I dig deeper and come across baby clothes. Tiny jumpsuits, vests and cardigans. The very sight of them is like getting an unwanted glimpse into the future and seeing my imminent doom. In a few hours time, a bipedal parasite is going to come clawing its way out of Cuddy's birth canal and will end up wearing some of these clothes.

Maybe going through her things isn't so fun after all. I decide to shut them away in the drawer, out of sight, along with the rest of her things. "Oh, put those in the top drawer," Cuddy tells me when I produce the packet of maternity pads. "Put my underwear in the top drawer, too. And the baby's clothes can go in the second drawer."

I hear her but I'm not really listening. I pull out a pacifier and hold it up. "Thought we decided the kid wasn't going to have one of these."

Cuddy looks up from folding her nightgown. She eyes the pacifier, then looks back at me. "'We'? Since when did we become a 'we' in this?"

"I'm allowed input."

"I didn't say you weren't. It's just interesting you're making a 'we' of it."

"That's because _we_ discussed it. And _we_ decided no pacifiers."

"_You_ decided."

"You, we." I shrug again. "Same thing."

"'We' used to be 'you and I', according to you."

"'We' takes less time to say."

Cuddy raises her brows.

"Don't read too much into it," I add dismissively.

"Ha," Cuddy says wryly. "Says the man who reads too much into _everything_."

I really don't want to discuss this 'we' business. I wave the pacifier at her.

She shrugs and hands the nightgown to me to put in the drawer. "I like to be prepared."

I wave the pacifier at her again. "These can cause bad habits of dependency."

"Gee, that's ironic, coming from you."

I toss the pacifier back into the bag. "It just so happens I _need_ Vicodin. Babies don't _need_ dummies."

Cuddy stretches out a hand and pats my arm. "We'll give you twenty-four hours with this baby and then we'll see if you change your mind."

"Twenty-four hours straight?" I say as I pull out a bundle of folded baby clothes. I transfer them into the second drawer, like Cuddy asked. "No, thanks."

"You said the same thing about being at the birth a few months ago," Cuddy replies pointedly.

I ignore her. As I'm pulling a few more baby clothes out of the bag, I hear wheels squeaking on the floor. I glance over my shoulder and see the nurse that had been here a few minutes ago wheeling a cardiotocograph into the room. "Time to strap you up," she announces to Cuddy cheerfully.

"Got a gag to go with it?" I ask.

"House," Cuddy says sharply.

I shut my mouth. I finish putting away Cuddy's things while the nurse hands Cuddy a gown and a specimen jar. She explains she needs a midstream urine sample and when the nurse leaves, Cuddy starts working her way off the bed. It's a slow, awkward and clumsy process. I watch, and for some reason I'm reminded of that David Attenborough documentary on the Discovery channel I saw the other week about elephant seals in the Antarctic.

Her feet finally touch down to the floor with all the grace of an Albatross landing and as she waddles across to the bathroom, I help myself to her bed by stretching out on on my back, ankles crossed and hands behind my head. This is the life.

Not for long, though.

"House," Cuddy calls from the bathroom.

What?" I call back.

"Come here for a minute."

"Why?"

"I need help."

"With _peeing_?"

"Just get in here."

I want to whine that I've just gotten comfortable but when I hear Cuddy viciously snap my name again, I do as I'm told. I drag myself off the bed and limp across to the bathroom. Opening the door, I stick my head in and see Cuddy perched on the toilet. Panties down around her swollen ankles, legs spread wide to accommodate for her massive gut, one hand clutching the support rail while she clutches the specimen jar in the other. The sight is unflattering, to say the least.

"Femininity at its most beautiful."

"Don't even," Cuddy warns. She waves the specimen jar. "Come and help me."

"What do I get out of it?"

"You don't get anything out of it."

"That's hardly fair."

"Try aiming into a tiny cup when you can't even see the top of your thighs, then we'll talk about fair."

"I _can_ see the top of my thighs, and one of them has a big chunk of muscle missing. I think I out-unfair you."

Cuddy gives me one of those looks that never fails to remind me how much I value my spleen. Seeing I _do_ value my spleen – at least, more than I value annoying the crap out of Cuddy - I obediently step into the bathroom and close the door.

I help her tug off her pants, seeing they need to come off anyway, and haul her up from the toilet so she can position the jar between her legs. But then she sits back down, complaining of back pain. And then complains further about not being able to see around her Buddha gut to be able to urinate into the jar. In the end, I snatch up some latex gloves in the box above the toilet, impatiently grab the jar from her and crouch down to shove her legs as far apart as possible.

"Pee," I command, holding the jar.

"And let you strip me of my dignity any further?" Cuddy snaps. "Get real."

"You're going to squeeze a bald, hungry troll out of your vagina within the next few hours, and you're worried about _dignity_?"

"It's my body. It's my dignity."

"You're sitting on the toilet with your legs spread wide open and your girl bits on full display," I say. "Bit ironic to be going all pro-dignity. There's definitely _nothing_ dignifying about childbirth."

"See?" Cuddy points accusingly at me. "That's _exactly_ what I'm talking about."

"Just pee, woman!"

Cuddy does that thing with her lips where she presses them together in such a tight, fierce line, it looks like she's been sucking on a lemon. She turns her head away and I assume that's her passive-aggressive way of admitting defeat. I turn my attention down between her legs to go fishing for pee. I shove the jar down to catch some of it midstream, then sit back and let her finish her business while I screw the lid on.

"See? That whole dignity thing you made a fuss about is all just water under the bridge," I say. "Or water under the toilet seat, more accurately."

I stagger to my feet and yank my gloves off to wash my hands, while Cuddy wipes and flushes. She gives me that look where I know she feels obliged to thank me for not ridiculing her, but is too stubborn to do so. I don't care. I don't want to be thanked, anyway. "Gonna put your gown on while you're in here?" I ask.

"Yes," she replies shortly.

I'm amused. Cuddy reminds me so much of a stroppy, hormonal teenager when she doesn't want to admit that she's wrong or that she's being a drama queen. I hold the gown out to her once she finishes washing her hands. "Want me to leave?"

She starts tugging her shirt up. "What for?"

"Privacy."

She stops what she's doing. "You just shoved your hand between my legs to collect my urine, and now you're offering me privacy?"

I shrug. "Seemed like a good moment to go through with my escape plan."

She snorts and resumes shedding her clothes. "And what escape plan might that be?"

I gesture to the door. "The nurse is going to strap you to the CTG. I figured I'd wait until you're bound and hopefully gagged, then turn and run for my life."

Slapping her shirt against my chest, Cuddy starts to smile. "Sorry to bring it to your attention, but there are some flaws in your plan. For a start, you can't run."

"I can limp-skip pretty fast."

"Secondly, fugitives usually don't tell their captives about their intention to escape."

"Oh, damn. You tricked me."

Cuddy just continues to smile and find myself giving her a small smile in return while she unclasps her bra. She hands it over and motions for the gown. I gather up her clothes from the floor and follow her out of the bathroom once she's gowned up. As I'm packing her things away into the bottom drawer, she seizes up with another contraction. Panic takes over again. It's like demon possession. No control over my heart rate, no control over my mind, and almost no control over my bowels. Figuratively speaking, of course. I sit on the edge of the bed with her hand clasped in both of mine until the worst of the contraction passes.

"One lash down," I say, relieved that it's all over, even though I know it's actually far from over. "Only god knows how many lashings left to go."

"Thanks," Cuddy replies in a dry, albeit breathless and weary, tone.

"My pleasure."

"Somehow, I think not."

As right as she is, I don't want to give Cuddy the satisfaction of knowing that. I'd rather do a year's worth of clinic duty than admit that I'm actually crapping my pants. Again, figuratively speaking. I'm pretty sure my ass will keep tally, too - one brown skid mark in my briefs for every one of Cuddy's contractions that I have to suffer through. So far, that would be seven skid marks in total. Not that I'm counting or anything.

Cuddy squeezes my hand. "You okay?"

"Oh, I'm just ducky," I lie. Then, because it's on my mind, I add, "I haven't worn my brown underwear for nothing."

Cuddy frowns in confusion at me.

I shake my head and wave my hand to tell her to forget it. No way am I explaining my ass tally system to her. From the way she keeps frowning at me, however, I'm positive she's going to ask me to explain what the hell I'm talking about. I frantically wrack my brain for an excuse that she'd believe. Or an excuse that she would at least consider so ridiculous that she wouldn't bother questioning it any further.

"House," she begins.

Here we go, I think to myself.

"You _are_ going to stay, aren't you?"

I blink in surprise. So not the question I was expecting.

She squeezes my hand again. "Because I don't think I can do this on my own."

It's my turn to frown in confusion. I stare at her for a long moment, then roll my eyes dramatically. "Actually," I reply, "I was thinking of going home and spending the rest of the night watching porn. Seems like a good night for it."

Cuddy snorts with a shake of her head. But then she reaches a hand up and touches the side of my face. "Thank you," she says softly.

"Thank you so doesn't cut it," I retort. "You owe me so many sexual favours, I've lost count."

"Such a pity I'll be out of order for at least six weeks," she agrees mock seriously.

"Lucky for me, I have a huge porn stash that'll keep me company during the long, lonely summer nights."

Cuddy strokes my cheek with her thumb, shaking her head again. Fond exasperation is the only way I can describe the look she's giving me. I hate the word fond, but I kind of like her exasperated fondness. I'd never admit that to her, though.

I lift a hand to her shoulder and rub it. I eye her massive belly and slowly, very slowly, drop my hand down to it. I know nothing is going to come suddenly bursting out of there with tentacles flying everywhere to attach itself to my face, ala John Hurt from _Alien_, but I'm careful just in case. I caress her stomach, running my palm across the top, then down to the side. Cuddy's hand joins mine and she guides my palm across to the front and presses down. Little movements constantly ripple under my hand, along with a steady tap-tapping of the kid hiccuping. I find myself wondering how something so small and defenceless can leave me feeling so utterly terrified. It's like those old Disney cartoons, where elephants trumpet in terror at the sight of a mouse. That's me. Afraid of something that isn't aware of my existence, or even its own existence.

I glance up at Cuddy. The expression on her face is indiscernible but through how bloated and weary she looks, the wrinkles around her tired eyes and her crazy, unbrushed hair, I find myself noticing how beautiful she is. Beautiful in a way I don't know how to explain. Leaning in, I place a soft kiss to her lips. She reaches her other hand up to my face and holds it while we exchange a few more light kisses. It's a revoltingly sickening Lifetime moment that I refuse to admit I'm probably going to remember for the rest of my life. Another one of those snapshot moments that burns a permanent imprint in my memory.

We're interrupted by the brisk squeak of the nurse's shoes on the floor when she returns to the room, and I stand from the bed while the nurse wheels the CTG closer to Cuddy's side. "I'm going to get a coffee," I say, giving Cuddy's hand a squeeze.

"Okay," she replies. "Don't be too long."

I slip out of the room just as the nurse is strapping Cuddy up to the non-stress test.

* * *

Instead of getting a coffee, I head out of the ward and stand in the deserted hallway to phone Wilson.

He answers after five rings. "Hello?" he says groggily.

"It's me," I greet.

"House," he groans. "It's... God, it's 4.45 in the morning."

"Really? I thought it was the afternoon. Weird. My body clock must be all out of whack."

"What do you want?" he asks impatiently.

I scratch my head and rub my eyes. Fatigue is slowly already creeping in and I'm nowhere near the finish line with this whole childbirth thing yet. "Cuddy's gone into labour."

"Seriously?" Wilson suddenly sounds alert. "How long ago?"

"She called me just before three. We've been here at the hospital almost an hour."

"How's she doing?"

"She's been complaining of a few belly pains. No biggie."

"Think it'll be a while?"

"I think I'm in for a long, stressful day, if that's what you mean."

"Want some company?"

"Only if you bring decent coffee."

"I'll be there in fifteen. Twenty, tops."

I snap my phone shut when Wilson hangs up and stifle a yawn as I make my way back towards Cuddy's room. She's strapped up to the CTG, a ream of paper slowly feeding out a graph of her contractions, while the baby's heartbeat sounds loud and fast over the foetal monitor. It's a horrifying, ominous, thrilling sound. I remember feeling the same sense of dread when I went to Cuddy's first foetal ultrasound; that kind of panic-inducing, palm sweating, blood pressure rising moment of realising the human baby-shaped organism feeding off Cuddy's body is very much alive and very much making its evil plans to slowly but surely destroy my life one single heartbeat at a time.

I keep my calm, however, as I step over to the machine.

"I'm apparently only three centimetres dilated," Cuddy informs me tiredly.

"That's it?" I hold out the paper and read the feed. Cuddy has had a contraction while I was gone. I glance up at her. "Looks like I'm in for a long night."

Cuddy scoffs. "_You're_ in for a long night?"

I take a seat on the armchair near her bed with a sigh and close my eyes. "You bet."

"Poor baby," she replies sarcastically.

"Poor _me_ you mean. The baby doesn't care."

"At least that's a step up from calling it 'the bundle of doom'."

"Referring to it as a baby doesn't change what it is. Doom in a womb."

Cuddy tuts. "Where's your coffee? Thought you were getting some."

"Wilson's bringing me some."

"Oh, you didn't wake Wilson up."

I open an eye and look at her. "Did. He'll be here in twenty."

Cuddy tuts at me again as though she's annoyed on Wilson's behalf for making him drag his ass out at this time of night – or morning. But then she shrugs. "I suppose if this turns into a lengthy ordeal, you'll have a playmate to keep you occupied. Ever the babysitter that Wilson is."

"He's not my babysitter. The guy's more like my conscience. Makes sense to therefore make him suffer what I suffer."

"Lucky him," Cuddy replies dryly.

The conversation is cut short with Cuddy going into another contraction. This one is harder and lasts longer, and I'm in a state of worry all over again as the nurse scurries back into the room. My leg is killing me. My palms are sweaty. My heart rate is back up and my stomach is all tied up in knots. I honestly don't know how I'm going to survive tonight without either stroking or developing a stomach ulcer. I frantically pop a Vicodin while the nurse starts prepping Cuddy's arm for a quick blood test. I decide I need to go for a walk.

"Hurry back," Cuddy calls after me when I tell her where I'm going.

I just wave my hand at her as I exit the room.

* * *

Wilson turns up in the middle of my seventh trek down the long, empty corridor outside the maternity ward. He alights the elevator, looking every bit as enthusiastic to be alive as I feel, and armed with a couple of coffees, a newspaper tucked under his arm, and a bunch of flowers in his hand. I won't lie – I've never been so thankful in my life to see him, because maybe this means I can dump most of the responsibility of being stressed and on the brink of a nervous breakdown onto him. I stop pacing and make a beeline for one of the coffees.

"Oh, flowers for me? You really shouldn't have."

"You're welcome," he intones as I snatch one of the coffees and take a long, grateful sip.

"You bring food?"

"You didn't say you were hungry."

I take another sip and resume pacing. "I'm not."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Where's Cuddy?"

I point towards the doors of the maternity ward, which I've long since started thinking of as the gates of Hell.

He looks at the doors, then back at me. "Do you mind being a bit more specific?"

"The Queen alien is in bed twelve."

Wilson widens his eyes in mild fear. I leave him to imagine what that might mean, and he leaves me alone with my coffee. I pace the corridor a few more times before taking a seat just outside the ward to try and make the most out of my caffeine hit while furiously rubbing my leg. Wilson eventually reemerges, minus the flowers, and takes a seat beside me.

"Thanks to you, I went in there, expecting to be eaten alive."

"She only does that when she's mating," I reply.

"And yet _you_ somehow lived to tell the tale."

"Only just."

"She's asking for you, by the way." Wilson sips his coffee and looks across at me. "How're you holding up?"

"Again, only just." I sit forward and rest my elbows on my knees. "What's the differential for cold feet?"

"Feet that are cold?" he suggests.

I look at Wilson. "Some help you are."

"You have cold feet?"

Cold is an understatement. More like frost bite. "I'm beginning to wonder what the hell I've got myself into," I admit.

"You didn't wonder that while being an apparent victim of Cuddy's mating rituals?"

"Sex tends to cloud your judgement." I shoot him a pointed glance. "Which I'm sure you'd know all about."

Wilson seems to let my taunt roll easily off his back, like the Wilson-shaped punching bag that he is. "Sorry to be of absolutely no reassurance whatsoever," he says without actually sounding remotely apologetic, "but it's a bit late to start having second thoughts."

I throw him another look; a dirty one this time. "Oh, not you, too."

He shrugs. "There's a reason they call it 'the terrible truth'."

I likewise shrug in response. I can't be bothered agreeing with him.

"_Are_ you having second thoughts?" he asks after a pause.

I look at him again. "Wouldn't you be?"

"No. I'd be in there with my partner, being a support to her rather than hanging out here on my own, feeling sorry for myself."

"I'm not out here on my own. I'm with you."

"You're supposed to be in there with her."

"I don't have to do anything you say."

"House, she needs you."

I ignore him. "And just for your information, she's not my partner."

"She's not?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

I look at Wilson once again, feeling uncomfortably caught off guard. Why _am_ I here? "Because..." I begin.

Because Cuddy and I have gone through a lot together these last nine months, as much as I had no intention to be a part of any of this. I've become a part of this weird Greg House-Lisa Cuddy unit without meaning to, watching her stomach steadily grow over the months and finding myself more and more involved in both Cuddy and this kid's life. Again, without meaning to. Because I kind of care about Cuddy. A lot. Because I feel stupidly responsible for her and for this kid, and know the kid deserves a father even if I'm terrified that I'll probably suck at being one. Because a part of me loves C--

I abruptly stand before I let that thought go any further. "Shut up," I snap, both at my brain and Wilson.

I drain the last of my coffee and toss it into the trash. Without another word to Wilson, I slam my hand on the maternity ward door and head back to Cuddy's room.

**TBC**


	2. part two

"Where the hell have you been?"

I take a seat on the armchair by Cuddy's bed, the sound of the baby's heartbeat drumming away from the non-stress test like the hoofs of one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. "Had a coffee break."

"That was some long coffee break," she snaps.

"Wilson's fault."

"You're the one who called him."

I point to the flowers that have been placed in a vase by her bed. "You wouldn't have gotten those if he wasn't here."

"I'm in labour. You really think I care about flowers right now?"

"You could at least be grateful."

"House," Cuddy says in a tone so sharp I actually freeze in mild fear. "Now's not the time to be an obstinate jerk. I need you."

I stare at her for a moment, then look away, feeling guilty. Damn Cuddy for making me feel guilty. Damn her for making me care about her. Damn her for letting me agree to be the father of her child. I sigh and slowly push up from the chair to head across to the bed. I sit on the edge and she takes my hand.

"Wilson would be way better at this," I tell her.

"He probably would be," she agrees in a gentler voice. "But he's not the one I want here."

"It would be a wiser choice."

"I don't care about what's wiser or not."

"I'm probably going to regret asking this, but why?"

"Because Wilson's not you."

I look down at her hand in mine. I find her answer far from comforting.

"House," she continues, "as much as you probably don't want to hear it, you being here is important to me. _You_ are important to me."

"You're right – I don't want to hear it."

"I know you don't," Cuddy sighs.

After she seizes up in another contraction, gripping her stomach with her face screwed up in pain, I wipe her face down with a cool cloth and decide to stay.

* * *

The sun rises just after 6. The hospital slowly comes to life as the morning turns into another hot summer's day; nurses and doctors rushing around the ward, patients and their family members coming and going, babies screaming to be fed, and other women who are in labour moaning in pain. It's like Hell. In fact, if Hell existed, I'm positive it would be right here in the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital maternity ward.

While Hell is busy bringing new demon children into the world, Cuddy's labour seems to grind to a bellyaching halt. I do everything I can to be useful, mainly because doing things makes me less anxious. I massage her lower back, I walk with her up and down the corridor outside, I even get in the shower with her at one point and let her hang off me while she restlessly moves about in a way that I can only describe as slow dancing, to relieve pain. Slow dancing in the shower with Cuddy while she's in labour - I don't know how much weirder and more undignified the day can get.

By 2PM, she's back in bed, exhausted and irritable, and – as it turns out when the doctor comes in to examine her – only a further centimetre dilated.

Cuddy lets out a frustrated sound as the doctor answers her pager and rushes off to attend to another woman about to give birth in another room. "I'm so ready for this to be over."

I stand at the end of her bed. "You're the one who insisted on coming here at three in the morning."

Cuddy gives me an irritated wave of her hand.

"Such a compelling comeback."

"Where's Wilson?" she demands.

"I don't know. Around."

"Go find him. Annoy him for a while."

"I'd rather annoy you."

"If you'd rather die, go right ahead," Cuddy replies crisply.

I take her point. I tell her I'll be back in about an hour and after I tell the nurses to page me if anything drastic happens, I head off to search for Wilson. I find him sprawled out on his couch in his office, asleep, his arm slung over his face and his tie hanging loose. Being the unsympathetic man I am, and I am _very_ unsympathetic after spending almost twelve hours with my life hanging in the balance between Cuddy's labour pains and the creature within her that's causing them, I make as much noise as possible to announce my presence: slamming the door, stamping my cane on the floor a couple of times, rattling his pencil retainer, bashing his keyboard and making his screensaver give way to his desktop background.

"House," he snaps.

"Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?"

He just glares at me from underneath his arm.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Wilson grunts tiredly as he pushes himself up. My hand comes in contact with a few rubber bands on his desk. I have this sudden need to let off steam to lower my stress levels; I entertain the idea of flicking the rubber bands at his head while he rubs his face and runs a hand through his hair. "How's Cuddy?"

"Bitchy."

"I mean progress-wise."

"Bitchy."

Wilson gives me a look. "Last I heard, 'bitchy' wasn't one of the stages of birth."

"It's not – it's one of the main stages of the entire pregnancy."

"Seeing she's at the tail end of that, let's just stick with the stage she's at now."

"She's still pregnant. And bitchy."

He runs his hand through his hair again. "I gathered that much. About the pregnant part, that is. Cuddy know you're here?"

"She may be in labour, but she's not the boss of me."

"That's not what I asked."

I take to studying the teddy bear collection on Wilson's bookshelf. God, I hate teddy bears. They used to make me think of cancer, seeing they're all the rage when it comes to Wilson and oncology in general, but now they make me think of life-altering tumours, like babies. The kind of tumours that grow arms and legs, and poop on things, and drool everywhere.

"She knows I'm here," I reply.

"I take it that means she's still in the early first stage."

"Not even four centimetres dilated yet."

"Oh, boy," Wilson sighs.

I pick up a weird, misshapen ornament from Wilson's desk and study it with a frown. No idea what it is, I set it back down. I examine a few other things, wondering how the hell Wilson manages to accumulate so much junk from his patients, and I'm aware that he's watching me the whole time. I try to ignore him.

"You okay?" he finally asks.

"Couldn't be better," I reply mock cheerfully.

"House."

I glance over my shoulder at him, then turn back to his cancer patient mementos. In a weird, twisted way, his mementos remind me of a serial killer and the way they always keep a souvenir of the people they've killed. He keeps souvenirs of all the people he's almost killed through chemotherapy. Or almost saved. Dr. Death would be such an apt name for him, I think as I read one of the thank you cards standing on his desk. Signed from someone named Claudia. I spend a moment wondering if she's still alive. Then I decide I don't care.

Wilson seems to think my silence means something significant. "You want to talk about it?"

"What's there to talk about?"

"Oh, I don't know," he replies dryly. "The fact that you're hours away from becoming a father?"

"Bit late to talk about that."

"It's never too late to talk about that."

"You're the one who said it's a bit late to have second thoughts," I shoot back.

"Since when was 'talking' an anagram for 'second thoughts'?"

I take interest in Wilson's pen collection on his desk. He has a big pen collection, I notice. Unnecessarily big. What the hell does he even need all these pens for?

"What if I can't do this?" I finally say.

"Do what?"

"You know." I gesture with my hand, prompting Wilson to get what I'm talking about. Of course, he just stares at me blankly. Stupid idiot is supposed to be my conscience, capable of reading my every thought when I don't want him to know what I'm thinking. Or when I don't want to voice my thoughts, like I don't want to right now. Some useless conscience he is. "You know," I say again, impatiently this time. "The whole father thing."

"I thought the arrangement was you're not obliged to do the father thing."

"I'm not."

Either Wilson isn't surprised to hear me say that, or he's fantastic at acting. His face gives away nothing of what he's thinking, which both annoys me and puts me on edge. In fact, he watches me closely enough to make me feel like I'm naked. "I'm pretty sure you can," he says.

"Easy for you to say," I reply dismissively.

"Nobody ever gets it completely right, House."

"Doesn't mean I want to get it wrong."

Wilson is silent for a moment. I hate it when he's silent because I know that means he's calculating everything in that manipulative head of his. "Can I ask what made you decide you _want_ to do this?"

"No."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay, allow me to rephrase: _tell me_ what made you decide to want to do the father thing."

"No."

"House."

I sigh again, and then shrug. I don't _want_ to do the father thing. Except I do. Even though I don't want to. Even though I do. I've never felt more torn about anything in all my life. "Because."

"That's not an answer."

"It is."

"House," Wilson repeats sharply.

I rub my hand over my face. I turn around and lean back against his desk, my cane clasped in my hands. "Because. It's just turned out that way."

"Because you _wanted_ it to turn out that way?"

"Of course I didn't want it to turn out that way," I retort.

Wilson gives me one of his trademark puzzled looks. "Meaning...?"

I really don't intend to answer him, but my mouth seems to have other ideas. "Meaning I'm terrified."

"Of being a father?"

"And of Cuddy."

Wilson frowns in confusion. "Cuddy?"

I consider using Wilson's stapler to staple my mouth shut so I can't say anything else stupid. I silently pray for something to happen – a bomb to drop, a terrorist attack, the Milky Way to suddenly collapse on itself and the galaxy to turn into a huge black hole, a cancer patient to come in to Wilson's office and suddenly drop dead on the floor. Even my pager to go off to tell me Cuddy's about to give birth.

"You have feelings for her," Wilson realises quietly.

I press my lips together. If I believed in a God, I'd be convinced right now that he, she or it must hate my guts, seeing my prayers went completely unanswered. I want to tell Wilson's he's wrong. Except I can't. I can't even think of a witty comeback.

I stare at the door without saying a word.

Wilson finally breaks the pregnant – no pun intended – silence. "I take it Cuddy doesn't know this."

"She doesn't need to."

"I think she does."

"No." I give Wilson a fierce look. "She doesn't."

Wilson just watches me for a second. I realise it's Wilson's mouth I should have stapled shut. "Just because you can pretend something doesn't exist, doesn't actually make that thing non-existent."

"What does it matter to you?"

"What does it _matter_? Cuddy's downstairs, having your baby, and you don't think any of this other stuff is important?"

I look away. I definitely do not want to answer him. Pushing away from the desk, I start towards the door.

"Oh, that's right," Wilson snaps. "Just walk away, like you always do."

I reach for the door and fling it open.

"I'm here if you ever need to talk," Wilson calls after me. From the frustrated tone of voice, I imagine him throwing his arms up in that melodramatic Jewish way of his.

I ignore him and slam the door shut behind me.

* * *

"Thank god you're back," Cuddy says when I enter the room a little over an hour later.

When I'd left Wilson's office, I spent the time pacing the corridors of the children's ward, knowing no one would find me there, and glared at little bald kids while I tried to walk the pain out of my leg. I didn't eat because I wasn't hungry. I couldn't sit because I felt too anxious. I hated the fact that no one was ringing my pager to let me know Cuddy was ready to deliver, because I wanted this whole thing to be over with twelve hours ago.

All anxiety and self-pity I'd been feeling vanishes the moment I lay eyes on Cuddy. She's sweating, breathing quickly and shifting about on the bed in pain. I immediately re-enter panic mode and dash to her side when she stretches a hand out towards me. One glance at the non-stress test tells me her contractions are close to two minutes apart.

"I hate you," she moans as another contraction starts to take hold of her.

"Nice," I reply distractedly, my attention fixed on the machine. "I love you, too."

"Liar."

I watch the graph incline sharply and listen with a grimace as Cuddy groans in pain and grips my hand tight enough to almost crush every bone in it. While the contraction slowly eases, I mop her brow with a cold cloth and start taking her pulse.

She slaps at me. "That's not your job," she scolds breathlessly.

"I'm just checking your pulse."

"I don't want you to check my pulse."

I pay no attention to her. I look down at my watch and start timing... and jerk in surprise when she slaps my face with the cloth.

"Stop it," she demands.

"Why?" I demand back.

"Because I don't want you here as my doctor, I want you here as my partner."

I scowl at her, but I do as I'm told. As much as I want to argue that I make a way better doctor than I do a partner, I wipe her face over with the cloth again, down her neck and the top of her chest, then fetch her some ice cubes to ease her dry mouth. By the time I return, Cuddy is clutching her belly again as another contraction takes hold.

"Why didn't you ask for pain relief?" I snap when the contraction eases off.

"I can do this without pain relief," she replies through gritted teeth.

"You're a moron."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You're too far in to even have pain relief now."

"That's because I don't _want_ any."

I fretfully rub my face. A nurse bursts into the room and starts taking Cuddy's vitals. Then the doctor rushes in and I watch in blind panic as the doctor snaps on a pair of gloves to examine Cuddy. Cuddy starts moaning in pain again and I suddenly want to push all the nurses and doctors aside and gather her up in my arms. I honestly thought I'd be able to handle Cuddy in pain, perhaps even revel in it a bit after all the pain she's caused me over the years with dictations and clinic duty. But no, I can't handle this. I can't handle seeing Cuddy in pain.

By the time the doctor finishes examining Cuddy, announcing that she's now almost eight centimetres dilated, I'm almost out of my mind with worry again. Without even thinking about it, I grab onto Cuddy's hand the moment the nurse leaves the room and I smooth her sweat-soaked hair back. I do everything I can to make her comfortable – I rub her feet, I make sure she has ice cubes to suck on, I keep wiping her face down, I keep asking her if she wants a heat pack for her back.

I suddenly realise with a feeling of horror mixed with irrational panic and fear as I rush off to get more ice cubes, that I'm fussing. I'm actually _fussing_. Like a terrified Dad-to-be. It's another one of those snapshot moments, one that flashes sharp and bright in my mind, burning an image in my brain. I know I'm going to remember this moment for the rest of my life – standing in the middle of the busy corridor with a jug of ice in one hand and a glass in the other, dumbstruck and disturbed and completely done for.

How the hell did this happen? How did I go from Greg House, the guy who swore myself off relationships and swore I'd never have kids, to Greg House, the guy who's shitting himself over a woman like she's my wife and hours away from becoming a father?

A baby screaming in one of the rooms nearby rudely pulls me back from the Twilight Zone. Everything slowly comes back into focus – the phone ringing at the nurses station, babies crying, nurses rushing around, the fluorescent lights glaring down from the ceiling. I continue back to Cuddy's room and pour her another glass of ice. Just as I'm handing it to her, she launches into another contraction. I fuss. I fret. I fucking panic. I'm positive I can't cope with this much more.

Her contractions come harder and faster. To make matters worse, Cuddy suddenly turns into Linda Blair from _The Exorcist_. Swearing and snarling and making noises that only the powers of demonic possession could possibly make. I almost expect her head to start spinning and green vomit to come gushing out of her mouth. She demands to be taken off the CTG and to be helped onto all fours, which I and a couple of nurses help her do. She grunts, wheezes, makes an endless string of animalistic sounds of pain. I watch her stomach seizing up with each contraction; a tight, misshapen mass as her uterus squeezes tightly around the baby. In my entire career, I have never once felt useless as a doctor. I feel nothing _but_ useless right now, though. I know rationally that everything is going normally and naturally, but that does little to ease my nerves.

I'm dying for a cigarette. Or a joint. Or maybe a hit of morphine. Or maybe a hallucinogen to take me on a happy trip to a happy place where Cuddy's screams of pain would be peals of happy laughter and her bed would be a boat floating downstream a serene, blue river.

While I'm pondering the wonderful world of class-A drugs, a nurse bustles into the room and pushes me aside. I decide I need a break, even if only for five minutes. I slip out as inconspicuously as possible.

* * *

Wilson is just outside her door, biting his nails and looking as wide-eyed with worry as I feel.

"How's she doing?" he immediately asks.

I'm exhausted. My leg is aching so much, I've been contemplating sawing it off for the last half hour. I'm in a state of shellshock and I'm not sure I can handle watching Cuddy in agonising pain any longer. I slump against the wall. I feel traumatised. Distraught. Distressed beyond all reason. Being a man has never been so difficult.

"In hard labour," I reply.

"Shouldn't you be in there with her?"

"Probably."

"Then why aren't you?"

"I don't think I can take much more. I feel like I've been strapped to a torture device for the last..." I look at my watch. "Almost seventeen hours."

"_You_ don't think you can take much more?" Wilson snorts. "Think about how _she_ feels."

"It's all I've been _able_ to think about. You been listening to what's going on in there? It's like the gates of Hell have opened for business."

"House!" I hear Cuddy wailing.

"See?!" I exclaim, jerking my thumb towards the room.

I don't want to go back in there. I can't. Simply can't. It's the first and only time in my life where I'd prefer to admit that I'm a wimp, rather than face Cuddy being in pain. Wilson gives me no option, though; he grabs my shoulders and shoves me towards the door. I resist. He shoves harder. I hear Cuddy calling my name out again. The whole ward is chorusing with the ear piercing shrill of babies crying. The doctor who's been keeping track of Cuddy's progress pushes past me and hurries into her room. My life is flashing before my eyes. Again. I so badly want to wake up and find this has all been a horrible, horrible dream.

"_House_!" Cuddy wails louder.

"Get _in_ there, you stubborn jackass," Wilson snaps. He pushes me harder. "She needs you."

I stumble through the door. I'm given absolutely no time whatsoever to take in what's happening - the nurse grabs my arm and steers me roughly towards Cuddy just as the doctor announces that Cuddy's almost ready to push. I'm somewhere between relieved and horrified by that news. Relieved because it's almost over. Horrified because that means I'm moments away from meeting the human being that's going to destroy my life.

I also feel a bit bewildered. Even though this ordeal has been going on for seventeen hours, it suddenly feels like hardly any time has passed at all. Surely there's some kind of mistake, I want to say. We can't possibly be approaching ground zero already. I wheeze in pain instead when Cuddy grabs my hand and squeezes it tight enough to cause three of my knuckles to crack loudly.

"I need to push," she pants.

The doctor peers between her legs. "Not yet."

"_Now_."

"Not yet, Lisa. You push now, you'll tear."

Cuddy squeezes my hand harder. God damn it, I almost shout while gritting my teeth against the agony of having every bone in my hand close to pulverised. Let her push!

"Breathe, Cuddy," I manage to say instead. "In, out, in--"

"Shut up," she snaps.

I ignore her. "_Breathe_, woman. Like they taught you at your weekly elephant walrus meet up club."

"Antenatal class, you ass."

"Whatever." I take a seat on the chair beside her, my hand still trapped in her bear trap grip. I lift my other hand and hold hers in both of mine. "Come on, breathe."

I demonstrate inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly to encourage Cuddy to do the same. She stares at me and begins to mimic with all the struggling effort of a woman trying not to expel a human shaped growth from her body. I never thought I'd see the day where I'd be sitting by a bed with a woman in labour, doing breathing exercises with her, but here I am, doing exactly that. And if it wasn't for the fact that the breathing exercises are actually making me calm down a bit, too, and that this whole moment is bordering on surreal and dreamlike, I would think this has to be one of the most humiliating moments of my entire life.

"Keep holding it, Lisa," the doctor says. "You're almost ready."

"How much longer?" Cuddy asks, close to sobbing.

"Not too much longer."

I squeeze her hand until she's looking at me again. "You're doing good," I murmur.

Cuddy just squeezes my hand in return before clamping her eyes closed with a grimace.

"Lisa, start pushing," the doctor urges. "Now. Right now."

I'm too focused on Cuddy to care how much the doctors words sound like she's me reading my last rites. But I was right when I told Cuddy there is nothing dignifying about childbirth. As she grunts and grits her teeth against the strain of pushing, the doctor tells her that a small amount of faeces trapped in her rectum is preventing the baby's head from crowning. The doctor tells her she needs to pass a bowel motion.

"I don't want to pass a bowel motion," Cuddy snaps.

"Stop being so full of shit," I retort. She shoots me a sharp look and I roll my eyes. "Cuddy, just do it."

Cuddy does as she's told without argument, for once. The nurse quickly cleans up the mess once Cuddy's done, then the doctor resumes encouraging her to push. Cuddy squeezes my hand with each bearing down and I simply keep my eyes focused on her face. I won't lie – despite all the panic and fear I've endured the last almost eighteen hours, I never thought I'd be humbled by a woman in labour. I have immense respect for Cuddy right now.

"Keep pushing," the doctor says. "You're almost there."

I don't really know what happens for the next few minutes that follows. But one moment, Cuddy is giving each push every bit of unwomanly grunt that she has, and the next there's a sudden burst of action and a baby crying.

"It's a boy!" the doctor announces.

I suddenly feel very detached from myself, like I'm having another near-death experience where I'm outside of myself, looking in. A screaming, gunk-covered Gollum-like creature still attached to the umbilical cord is brought up and laid across Cuddy's chest, and Cuddy lets out a soft exclamation of relief or joy. I watch her draw the thing into her arms with a weird sense of calm. Or shock. Or something that is blocking my panic receptors from going into red alert. The eye of the tornado again.

I've heard a lot of men talk about that moment of seeing their newborn child for the first time. They use words like "joy" and "happiness" and "relief" and "ecstatic". I feel none of those things. I feel... unable to respond. Frozen. Shell shocked. Maybe awed.

The baby is swiftly taken away from Cuddy to the corner of the room to be weighed and measured once the cord is clamped and cut. Cuddy seems too fixated on the baby to pay any attention to me, which is fine because I'm happy to stay cocooned in this cone of silence. I've dealt with enough chaos in one day to last me a lifetime. A few minutes later, the baby is brought back to Cuddy, wrapped in a blue and white striped blanket, and the nurse helps Cuddy attach it to her breast.

She looks across at me once it's latched on. She looks exhausted, but happy. Glowing. The doctor tends down between her legs, delivering the placenta and then examining for any tears that might need to be stitched up. Cuddy holds her hand out to me.

"You okay?" she asks tiredly.

"I'm alive," I say. "I suppose that's a start."

She smiles, and I take her hand in mine.

* * *

"Well," Wilson says quietly. "You survived."

I stand at the end of Cuddy's bed with Wilson, watching Cuddy and the kid sleep. Lucky them. I, on the other hand, am on the brink of collapsing with exhaustion. My head is throbbing. My eyes are burning with fatigue. My leg is killing me. I feel like I've just been released from a torture chamber, all bloodied and bruised and barely able to function. What a way to start fatherhood. "Only just," I reply.

"I'm happy for you."

I look at Wilson. "Don't."

"Don't what? Be happy for you?"

"Just don't be happy, period."

Wilson does his morally superior Superman pose. "Why the hell not?"

"Because you being happy requires energy to argue with you until you're not. I don't have any energy to argue."

Wilson gives me That Look. The one with the one lopsided eyebrow and the slightly squinted eye. The one that clearly says 'what's wrong with you?'. "Here's a novel idea: how about _you_ try being happy for once. It's actually not as hard as it seems. Might conserve some energy that way, too."

I point at my head. "Can't you read the 'low battery' alert flashing on my forehead?"

"No. It's obscured by the permanently affixed 'trespassers and people who exude any form of happiness will be maimed' sign."

"Stop it, both of you," Cuddy mutters without opening her eyes.

As much as I want to retort that Cuddy's probably just sleeptalking to her breasts, I obediently fall silent, as does Wilson. I watch Cuddy for a moment, then the kid. _My_ kid. My son. I've tried running those last two words through my head over and over since he made his slippery entrance into the world, but I still don't like how awkward and foreign it sounds. What makes it even harder is that I know absolutely nothing about this kid. Nothing at all. He might as well be a blank microchip that's waiting to be programmed. By Cuddy. And me. I feel a bit threatened by that fact.

"So, have you actually held Matthew yet?"

"I let him suck on my finger."

"Wow. How very fatherly of you."

"Well, he doesn't know the difference. He's a baby. Sucking's all he's interested in."

"What made you agree on the name Matthew, anyway? You never willingly agree to anything."

"I wanted Damien if it was a boy, but for some reason Cuddy wouldn't agree to that name. So I had to settle for Matthew." I suddenly yawn.

Wilson snorts. "Go home, House. Get some rest."

"Can't." I gesture to Cuddy and the kid.

"They're both resting. I don't think they'll care if you're gone for a few hours."

I shake my head. I don't want to go home. Not yet. I'm not ready to. Tired as I am, I still feel wired and on edge, and I know that if I went home I wouldn't be able to relax. I pull out my Vicodin, the only comfort I have left, and quickly throw back a pill.

Wilson yawns. "Well," he says, rubbing his face, "I'm going home. I'm beat."

"Oh, poor you," I reply sarcastically.

"Yeah, yeah." He waves his hand dismissively. "I've been on call for you for the last nine months. I'm officially signing off for the night." Wilson steps over to Cuddy and quickly kisses her cheek, before gathering up his jacket. "Call me if you need anything," he says to me as he leaves.

"So much for officially signing off," I call after him.

And then it's just Cuddy, the kid, and me.

The room is silent. The sounds of the maternity ward outside seem a million miles away. I stand for a long while, just staring between Cuddy and the kid, and feeling strangely very alone. In maternity room twelve, I think to myself, no one can hear you scream.

Finally, I take a seat on the edge of Cuddy's bed, my leg unable to hold me up any longer. I feel old and worn out. Trampled on. Drained. Like Superman to Kryptonite. I want nothing more than to lie down next to Cuddy and go to sleep. I don't, though. I end up watching her sleep, instead. She looks so remarkably non-threatening when she's asleep, it's a little hard to believe she's the very woman who possesses the divine talent of annoying the absolute crap out of me. It's true - she frustrates me, pisses me off, gets on my nerves, aggravates me so much that I often wonder how the hell I've come to be so close to her. Close to the point where I can no longer picture my life without her playing the role that she plays in it now. I blame that entirely on her, because she's evil and conniving and out to make my life a living hell... and I don't mind it one bit.

I lift my hand and touch her cheek with the back of my fingers. I run my thumb along her cheekbone. She stirs but doesn't wake. I stifle another yawn just as the kid makes a soft, grizzling sound. I stand from the bed and move across to the crib, and stare down at him. He grizzles again and moves about until a little arm shoots out from his bundle of blankets. He waves it about haphazardly and makes another soft sound, and I lift my hand to press my forefinger to his palm and he immediately clutches onto it.

This is it. This is the beginning of the end. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I have been assimilated into the parenthood collective. Resistance is futile. I can kiss what's left of my life goodbye. This inarticulate, bald, seemingly innocent and defenceless human being now rules my life with its tiny iron fist. And there is nothing I can do about it.

Crap.

Despite myself, as the kid starts to cry with his hand still gripping onto my finger, I start to smile.

**end.**


End file.
